Visiting Sapa is like stepping back in time. The hill tribes of the Black H’mong and Red Dzao have changed little in the few hundred years since they arrived from China. High in the mountains of northern Vietnam, life and agriculture have adapted to the cold and hilly conditions so adeptly that there has been little cause to modernise.
Hillsides have been converted into paddy fields designed to maximise the available space. From the top down enormous steps have been carved into the landscape, increasing in size as they reach the valley floor. Each wide step has a lip at the edge so that water can pool within it. As you look out over the countryside hundreds of these ingenious ‘fields’ give the effect of Roman coliseums piled upon top of one another.
As we trekked around the farms we saw just how clever these systems were. Rather than using pumps or hoses to fill the paddies, water was channelled from the top of the mountains downwards using the simplest of methods: gravity. Thick bamboo poles became gutters for the mountain streams and carried the water to exactly where it was needed. After the top paddy was filled adequately water spilled over and into the next ad infinitum: think of those terribly naff chocolate fountains which lurk in the corner of work Christmas parties.
Farm animals lurked on every corner - pigs, buffaloes and horses ate what they needed whilst also turning over the earth - seemingly self sufficient. In a similar fashion rice was removed from its husk using an automatic pestle and mortar powered by the flow of water.
We were joined on our trek by the ladies of the Black H’mong tribe. They made us gifts from grass, held our hands to ensure we didn’t slip and fall and questioned us in brilliant English about ourselves and our families. For the princely some of five-million Vietnamese dong it would be possible to secure the hand in marriage of one of these beautifully dressed young ladies - those sporting lobe-stretching earrings were already taken and not on the market. We discovered how they fashioned clothes from hemp and dyed them with indigo, visited their simple wooden homes and learned how flirtation and dancing at the Saturday Love Market can lead to inter-tribal relations.
Having led us to their village our new friends sold us handicrafts and trinkets which, to be honest, we didn’t want. But having treated us so kindly it was only fair that we passed over a few quid for an embroidered head-band or two.
Having lunched and shopped, our new shadows were the ladies of the Red Dzao. Their contribution to our journey was minimal - the path they led us through was uncomplicated and unchallenging. They added little in value, but much in annoyance. At the end of our trek they became significantly less friendly. Determined to sell us their wares, the prevailing attitude became: you scratch my back or I’ll stab you in yours. Rampant commercialism has rarely been so aggressive or unwanted: the Tat Offensive.
Our evening was spent partaking in bia hoi and barbecue. Skewers of meat, vegetables, chicken claws and unidentifiably tiny birds were cooked over hot coals and washed down with copious quantities of the world’s cheapest alcoholic beverage. Our little travelling party swelled in numbers by the locals, we topped off our finest day in Vietnam (so far) utterly drunk and completely stuffed.
Our return to Hanoi was greeted by the bizarre site of hoards of Vietnamese folk engaged in lakeside aerobics. At 5am. T’is a strange place, indeed.